


With Every Touch

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bruises, Developing Relationship, Light Sadism, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Needles, Partnership, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Scars, Stitches, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-24 13:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14955200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "'It just needs some stitches,' Stein says. 'I can sew it up and you’ll be good as new.'" Stein takes care of his partner, and Spirit asks for help.





	1. The Start

Stein isn’t thinking about the weapon in his hand.

It’s not Spirit’s fault. Spirit did well, Spirit is as perfect a partner as he has ever been for Stein, exactly the right combination of flexible and steady to counterbalance the constant crackle of Stein’s thoughts, the force of certainty and the haze of confusion that can give way one to the other as quickly as a lightswitch flickering varying illumination over a room. Stein is grateful to Spirit, or he will be as soon as he has the mental space to spare for the thought; it’s just that right now he has blood under his fingernails, and spent violence aching in his muscles, and he’s not ready to give up the relief that always comes with a fight.

It went well, by any reasonable standards. Stein appreciates the missions they go on, appreciates the release they offer for the tension that builds in him with every day that passes with the illusion of normalcy intact: the burst of violence is a relief, the surge of energy lashing out of him a means to unravel some part of the strain he carries deep in the cracks of his soul as much as it is within the assumed bodies of the Kishin eggs they fight. There’s an essential value to the combat they engage in beyond even the simple fact of removing a Madness-shattered existence from the world; Stein wonders, sometimes, if that’s not as much the point of the DWMA as anything else, to provide an outlet for people like him, for those who carry something in their psyche as dangerous in its own way as the razor-edged blades that Spirit and the other weapons have to learn to contain. It’s a dark thought, Stein supposes, to think of the Academy as a means of control, of restraint into acceptability for urges that are less than typical; but it has been that for him, and even if the bonds are things he has taken on voluntarily that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know them for what they are.

These are the kinds of thoughts that occupy him over the walk back through the city to return to the lab that sits at the far outskirts of it. With Spirit in weapon form there must be some measure of Stein’s consciousness that is carrying over, like a murmur heard from across a room, but it won’t be the first time Spirit has been privy to some of the darker corners of Stein’s psyche, and he hasn’t left yet. Stein can’t hide from his weapon partner, can’t imagine a functional relationship in which he is trying to hide some aspect of himself, and so he continues on with his movement and his reflections at once, pacing over the quiet streets until he’s cresting the hill on which the lab sits and drawing up to the front doors. He reaches out to push the door open, just by a crack, just enough to give himself a gap enough to slip through alongside the weapon he’s still holding in his hand; and then he’s inside, safe in the cool darkness held in by the heavy walls around him, and for a moment all Stein does is lean back against the support of the door behind him, and shut his eyes, and breathe the comfort of home into his lungs as the purr of sated violence drains from him to leave him exhausted and loose-limbed with relaxation.

Stein isn’t sure how long he’s been standing there when he finally takes a breath to speak. It’s long enough that he’s grateful for the wall at his shoulders, long enough that he can feel a dull ache at his knees where he’s locked them out to hold himself up; there’s a pull at his shoulder, too, the protest of muscles complaining at the effort needed to hold the heavy weight of the scythe at his side upright, and it’s that that finally decided him on the necessity for speech from within the echoing caverns of his mind. “Are you planning on staying like that all night?”

There’s a huff of an exhale, the sketch of a laugh that Stein feels against the inside of his thoughts more than hears it physically. Spirit hesitates for a moment: Stein can feel him holding back, can feel his partner’s uncertainty in his head like it’s a tension against the inside of his own chest. It’s unusual for Spirit to hesitate over anything, especially over any open invitation to speak; Stein opens his eyes in answer to that, pulled into a distant hum of curiosity in spite of himself, but the weapon in his hand is already disintegrating, collapsing in on itself to reform and align itself into the shape of a boy instead of a blade. Stein’s fingers close on air where there was a handle, his gaze skips up to find his partner’s face, and then Spirit is standing there next to him, his shoulders tipped back against the closed door behind them and his hand lifted to press hard against his side.

Something is wrong. Stein can see it at once, in a thousand different tells: the bloodless white of Spirit’s face, the sweat darkening the fall of his red hair to black in the shadow, the tension at his jaw and against the line of his neck. His breathing is coming too fast, he’s hissing it through his nose as if the pressure at his lips is the only thing holding back an audible whimper, and the angle of his shoulders insists that the wall behind him is doing far more to keep him upright than his own strength; but mostly it’s because Spirit is Stein’s partner, and he knows how the other ought to look better than he knows the shape of his own reflection, and something is clearly, obviously wrong.

“Spirit.” Stein straightens from his own lethargic lean at once, exhaustion forgotten in the immediate, pressing need to determine the cause of the other’s expression and remove it as rapidly as possible. “What’s wrong?”

Spirit swallows hard enough that Stein can see the motion work in his throat. “I, uh…” but Stein is already stepping in towards him, is already reaching to close his fingers against the strain in Spirit’s wrist and pull to urge the other’s hold away from the front of his jacket. There’s tension enough in Spirit to require a measure of force to achieve the action, but Stein doesn’t think about the effort needed to pry the pressure of the other’s fingers away from his side; he’s caught up in the distraction of the wet soaking through the dark of Spirit’s coat, the color hard to make out in the dim lighting of the entryway but with slick heat enough to identify even with scarlet turned to shadow in the light.

“You’re hurt,” Stein says calmly. Spirit’s bleeding into the front of his shirt; Stein reaches out to touch against the edges of the soaked-through fabric to feel out the edge of the damage under gentle fingers. “How bad is it?”

Spirit shakes his head without moving from the door. “I’m not sure,” he says. “I thought I’d be okay for the way back but--” Stein’s fingers drag against the torn edge of fabric and Spirit’s voice breaks open onto a startled gasp of pain. “ _Ow_.”

“Sorry,” Stein says absently, and draws his hand back carefully. His fingers come away stained with red; even with the front of his jacket soaked and the pressure he’s been holding over the injury, Spirit’s still very definitely bleeding. Stein presses his thumb against the red at his fingertips to rub idly through the color while he considers their options. “Can you transform back?”

“Uh,” Spirit says articulately. “I don’t...I don’t know.” His forehead creases hard as he forces himself through a swallow. “Do you need me to?”

“No,” Stein says. “It would be easier to carry you that way but I don’t have the means to treat a weapon. If you’re not sure you’d better stay as you are.” He lets his hand fall to his side and steps in closer to reach for Spirit’s uninjured arm. “Hold onto me.”

Spirit reaches up, weapon-obedience urging him into action even as his breath hisses with hurt and his already bloodless face goes grey with the pain of the motion. Stein ducks down and pulls Spirit’s arm up around his neck before closing his fingers hard on the other’s wrist to keep him in place as Stein urges him up from the wall. Spirit has the clammy look that he sometimes gets after a fight, or when he’s very ill, and if he’s going to pass out Stein would rather have the means to carry him bodily through the lab without having to drag at the wound at his side. Stein reaches out to loop his other arm around Spirit’s waist, hesitating for a moment over his point of contact before he settles his fingers up high against the other’s ribcage instead of pressing to the open injury underneath his torn jacket.

“Come on,” Stein says. He doesn’t need to speak: they’re moving already, Spirit is being propelled along the hallway by Stein’s grip as much as his own motion, he doesn’t need the instruction. But his breathing is rasping, and his eyes are glazed, and even if Stein can work with Spirit unconscious it’ll be easier to judge the extent of the damage if he can keep his partner alert enough to answer questions. Stein steadies his grip on Spirit and pulls a little harder at the other’s arm around his neck to take more of his partner’s weight. “When did it happen?”

Spirit shakes his head. The movement pulls at a lock of his hair caught between his shoulder and Stein’s. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I was distracted in the middle of the fight and then afterwards I didn’t think about it until I saw the blood.” He presses his lips together and swallows hard. “I thought it would be better to get home before we worried about it.”

“You did well,” Stein tells him. It might not be true: there’s a possibility, however minimal, that the injury is beyond Stein’s ability to mend and that they will need to backtrack over the distance to the Academy after all. But that’s a distant possibility, Stein thinks, and he’s grateful for the opportunity to work on something with a little more complexity than the small animals he’s had available to him before; and he’s impressed in general by how much Spirit has proven himself able to bear already. It’s always a shock to realize how resilient the other boy is, when he is so prone to emotional breakdowns over dramatic television shows or fights at school or missing a few hours of sleep; Stein always feels the realization of Spirit’s foundation-solid reliability with all the brilliance of a sunrise, like he’s being reminded that daylight exists in the world at all.

Spirit huffs another exhale. It’s meant as a laugh but he’s too breathless to give it the shape of proper amusement; when Stein glances at him from behind the rims of his glasses he can see the blue shading against Spirit’s lips and the unruly weight of hair catching at his forehead and over his cheek. He looks like he might collapse at any moment; he feels like the only thing keeping him upright is his meister’s hold on him. “I’m glad I did okay.”

“You did,” Stein says, without having to stretch sincerity at all, and then they’re coming up on the matched doors that lead into the room he’s claimed as his operating space. They’re set on hinges to let them swing easily so Stein can push them open with an elbow or a shoulder rather than a hand; he’s grateful to that detail now as he turns sideways to half-fall through the weight of them with Spirit draped over his shoulders. The other is nearly dead weight on his feet, barely even managing the exertion needed to hold onto Stein at all, and Stein can feel the physical effort of their recent combat leeching strength from his body with alarming speed; but it doesn’t matter, they’ve made it to where they need to be in any case. Stein half-leads, half-drags Spirit over to the table set up in the middle of the room and collects himself for a last push of effort to urge the other up to sprawl flat over the support; then he leaves his weapon where he lies to turn back and head for the industrial sink set up in the corner so he can pull off the coat he’s wearing and wash his hands from fingernails to elbows with the strongest soap he has.

It takes him a few minutes. His fingers are stained with Spirit’s blood, his nails carrying the dirt and grit from their fight with the Kishin egg; Stein lingers over the process, working through each step with thorough attention. Spirit is where he needs to be, Stein can take care of what needs doing even if his partner passes out while he’s preparing; but Spirit’s eyes are still open when Stein shuts off the water and turns back around, his face white as death and his breathing labored but his shoulders still tense with pain instead of slumping heavy with unconsciousness. He tips his head to look at the other as Stein comes back over from the sink and even musters an attempt at a smile, shaky and pained though it is, and Stein is impressed with him all over again.

His feelings don’t touch his voice when he speaks. “Hold still,” Stein says as he comes in towards the edge of the operating table Spirit is currently laid across. “You could hurt yourself if you move suddenly.”

“I don’t know what I could do to make it hurt _more_ ,” Spirit says, sounding a little amused and a little petulant, but he lifts his head all the same, fixing his gaze on the ceiling overhead and letting the whole rest of his body go slack against the support beneath him. Stein watches his face for a moment to make sure the other will hold still as ordered; satisfied, he sets aside the question of Spirit’s present emotional status for the sake of considering his physical one.

He’s been bleeding for a while. The color is vivid in the bright lights of the operating room; it’s soaked through the white of the undershirt he’s wearing under his dark coat and seems to have spilled halfway down his thigh, from what Stein can tell against the black fabric. Stein unbuttons the coat first, slipping buttons free in quick succession so he can pull the coat open and away from the tear that cut through jacket and shirt alike; he’s slower with the shirt, careful of moving the fabric stuck close to Spirit’s skin with clotted blood. He lifts the weight of it carefully, easing at the thin cloth to gauge the motion and the relative freedom he can work loose from it; Spirit hisses once, as the torn edge tugs free, but it sounds closer to relief than to pain, and when Stein looks up at the other’s face Spirit’s lips are parted instead of pressed close to restrain tells for agony. Stein watches Spirit for a moment, gauging the other’s calm unobserved; and then he looks down and pulls up at once to draw the weight of the bloodsoaked undershirt away from the pale of the weapon’s skin.

Spirit gasps a breath at the movement, and then hisses at the hurt his abrupt inhale does to his injury; but Stein doesn’t look up, now that he has the whole of the wound clear before him. It’s a long injury, starting just below Spirit’s lowest ribs and curving around his side to dig deep at his hip. If it were much lower it would have gone deeper, Stein thinks, and would be beyond his ability to easily mend; but the blow looks to have skidded off that first curve of bone, and even the deepest point has done no more than bite past skin and into muscle. The only real problem is the length, the size that has kept it from closing up and halting the flow of blood soaking Spirit’s skin, and that Stein is more than able to remedy.

“It just needs some stitches,” Stein says. “I can sew it up and you’ll be good as new.”

Spirit huffs a laugh that just sounds like a whimper. “You sure about that?”

Stein lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “You’ll need some rest,” he admits. “A few full meals to replenish the blood you’ve lost. Still, you should be back on your feet within a week.” He looks up to Spirit’s face again, making a deliberate effort to seek out the eye contact that he knows Spirit will find reassuring, at least.

Spirit is watching him, his head tipped down so he can look at Stein’s face instead of at the ceiling. He’s still very pale, with no color in his cheeks and barely any left in the curve of his lips, but the strain of effort or, perhaps, of fear against his jaw and neck is gone now, given way to time or to the other’s reassurance. Stein meets his gaze, not sure what Spirit is seeing in his face but willing to offer it without protest, if it provides some measure of comfort.

“It’ll hurt,” he says clearly. “The cleaning and the sewing both. I could put you under if you want.”

Spirit shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I’ll handle it.” His mouth twists onto a lopsided smile as he tips his head into the approximation of a shrug without shifting his shoulder. “Unless it hurts enough that I pass out, I guess.”

“Suit yourself,” Stein says, and turns away to collect the disinfectant and tools he’ll need to tie together the cut edges of Spirit’s skin. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

“I’ll be sure to keep you informed,” Spirit says, with a flicker of the wry humor he occasionally musters under pressure. The corner of Stein’s mouth tightens on amusement but he doesn’t say anything, just gathers what he needs so he can come back and turn his attention to his partner’s injury.

Spirit doesn’t ask for the anesthetic. Stein thinks he’s going to, at the first stinging force of the antiseptic rinsing the red of blood the color of his own hair off his skin; for a moment he thinks the other might pass out in truth from forgetting to breathe if not from the pain itself. But then Stein pulls away from the necessary cleaning, and Spirit lets his breath go in a rush, and when Stein looks back up at him again there’s a little less strain in his jaw, as if he’s seen through the worst of the process. Stein’s not sure that’s true -- the process of setting the sutures into the raw edges of the wound is neither pleasant nor brief, as the antiseptic was, at least -- but Spirit breathes with deliberate intent in spite of the strain Stein can see curling in the other’s fingers, and if his shoulders are tense with pain he’s obedient to his meister’s command and doesn’t move at all. By the time Stein is tying off the last loop of thread to close off the angry injury into the neatest line he can make of it, a little of the color has come back into Spirit’s lips, at least, and what clammy sweat there is against his forehead has evaporated to leave him looking more exhausted than in critical pain.

“There you go,” Stein says, speaking clearly to be sure Spirit will hear him as he cuts the thread free and straightens from his attention over his partner’s form. “You’ll want to wash and change your clothes, but that should keep you from losing any more blood while you do so. Move slowly and go to bed and you’ll be fine.”

“Yes, doctor,” Spirit says. There’s an edge of teasing on the words but his voice is weak enough that it’s hardly discernible at all. He takes a breath and braces himself to sit upright; Stein reaches out to close his hand against the other’s elbow so he can take some of the weight as Spirit sits up. Spirit pays him back with a smile for his efforts and the bright of blue eyes that look far clearer now than they did when they came into the lab.

“Thanks,” he says. He pulls at the weight of his bloodstained coat, attempting to set it back into place before he gives it up as a futile task. “Sorry I fell apart on you out there.”

“You didn’t,” Stein tells him. “You held it together when I needed a weapon and we handled the fallout after the fact.” Stein considers Spirit sitting before him, his shoulders slumped and his hair falling in front of his face; he doesn’t need to see the waver of insecurity in the weapon’s soul to feel it all but humming in the air. He leaves the bottle of antiseptic he was reaching for and stretches out instead to rest his hand against the angle of the other’s shoulder with careful intent. It’s a clumsy motion, Stein is sure, he can feel the strange, desperate effort of it like he’s crossing a wall, but Spirit’s head comes up at once, his gaze pulling up on the force of shock to meet Stein’s eyes, and that’s all Stein really needed from him. He fixes the other’s attention with his own and wills the full force of meister-certainty to his lips.

“You did well,” Stein says, firm and absolute to leave no room for argument. He presses his hand harder to Spirit’s shoulder. “Thank you.” He holds the point of contact for another moment, holds Spirit’s gaze as the other gapes at him; and then he lifts his hand, and reaches for the antiseptic, and moves away to replace his tools where they belong and wash his hands back to clean again.

It doesn’t make sense that the heat of Spirit’s body through his coat should linger at Stein’s palm even after the long span of washing is done, but he can feel the ache of it like a bruise long after he’s left the bright of the operating room behind him.


	2. See the Parts

Spirit’s injury heals well. It aches for the first few days -- that much, Spirit knows, can hardly be avoided -- but the pain begins to ebb surprisingly soon, and by the time the stitches come out to leave just the raw red of the healing wound itself Spirit can see the elegance of Stein’s work, can see the evidence of the other’s steady hands in the clean line of healing skin curving from his ribs down to his hip. It’s precise work, the thin line of healing damage so pristine it starts to look almost beautiful, as the angry red fades towards the shadow of a scar instead of an open injury; Spirit catches himself looking at it in the bathroom mirror, sometimes, so caught by the proof of his meister’s skill that he nearly forgets the physical pain that he himself suffered in the process. It’s always startling to remember, when he returns to himself, to realize how enthralled he was by the evidence of Stein’s touch lingering on him, and he always has to spend longer than usual under the spray of warm water before he can shake himself free of the strange self-consciousness that haunts him after.

He doesn’t mention it. Stein doesn’t seem interested in hearing unasked-for updates, even when it comes to work that falls far closer to his apparent interests than the usual range of Spirit’s hobbies, and Spirit feels strange enough about his appreciation that he doesn’t want to open it up for the weight of that cool green stare that always seems to see right through who and what he pretends to be to the very core of him. He’s sure his increasing activity level speaks for itself, anyway, as his recovery is demonstrated by his easing movement and greater energy, and Stein’s silence on the subject speaks to a level of confidence in his own work that Spirit can’t help but admire, even if it is impossibly far from his ability to emulate.

They’re back out on missions within the month. The first few they go after are easy tasks, more cleanup around the fringes of the city than major undertakings: a measure of consideration from Lord Death, Spirit thinks, although the headmaster is no more forthcoming about his understanding of the students under his care than Stein is about his grasp on the intricacies of his partner’s mindset. It makes for a slow rehabilitation, as Spirit regains his confidence and strength at one and the same time, and by the time Stein takes him out after a larger Kishin egg there’s no hesitation to the swing of his scythe handle, no dullness to the edge of Spirit’s blade. They fall back into habit, reclaiming the grace that has always been as natural between them as the shape of the weapon Spirit has carried locked inside the iron in his blood; and Spirit can feel the comfort of routine settle over him like the weight of a blanket around his shoulders, something to soothe away the rough edges of what might be anxiety and bring him into the stability in himself that is always so much easier to find with Stein’s hands certain and unflinching on the handle of his weapon form.

It’s not the last injury Spirit takes, of course. Casualties are an inevitability when it comes to combat; even if meisters are more often the ones sent to the infirmary, weapons take their fair share of damage too, often more immediately for the protection they are meant to offer for their wielders. Spirit prefers it that way -- he’d rather be the one weathering blows than standing aside while watching Stein bleed into the pale of the stitched-together lab coats he wears -- and he suspects Stein knows as much, even if Spirit’s never put words to the sentiment directly. The meister certainly never hesitates to make use of Spirit as a shield as often as he tears into flesh and bone with the other’s razor-sharp edge, and he doesn’t offer even a flicker of guilt into the shared space of their connection when their latest fight ends with a Kishin soul glowing fitfully on the ground and Spirit’s breathing struggling on pain even within the buffer of his weapon form. Stein just takes a breath, and lets it out slow, and then says “Stay like that” before he leans in to pick up the Kishin soul and pocket it before shouldering Spirit and beginning the trek back to the lab that serves as their home.

Stein doesn’t offer the distraction of conversation on the way back. There are times Spirit finds the other’s quiet frustrating: before combat, especially, when his heart is fluttering on adrenaline and he thinks he’d be willing to do anything at all to find an outlet for it. But right now Spirit’s thoughts are slow, they drag and trip over every pang of hurt from the bruised-deep damage in what he thinks of as his shoulder in spite of the current absence of a physical form for him to call his own, and the complete silence from even Stein’s thoughts is a relief more than anything else. Spirit claims all the comfort of being alone, the peace and relief of having no one to judge him while still maintaining the reassurance of a guiding hand, of a patient observer to catch him in case he falls into a sudden decline. It’s soothing, more comfort in practice than any amount of kind words or gentle touches would be, and it leaves Spirit free to shut his eyes and relax into his present form as the pain from his shoulder eases into a dull throb instead of a sharp-stinging hurt.

Stein carries him the whole way back without hesitating. Even when they cross the doorway into the lab he hardly slows; there’s no time for Spirit to even wonder if he should transform before Stein is sliding through the entrance with the scythe still swung up over his shoulder as he makes his way through the overwide corridor and down in the direction of the operating room he laid claim to after Spirit’s last incident. The ceiling is high, the halls expansive enough to more than allow for the extra room demanded by Spirit’s weapon form, and Spirit has a moment to wonder if that had been Stein’s intention in requesting to move into this space before the other pushes open the door to the operating room and steps inside to set Spirit down just alongside the door.

“You can transform now,” Stein says, his words so calm he sounds as if the fact of Spirit’s physical state is entirely incidental to him. Spirit has a brief moment to wonder what the other will do if he doesn’t change, to imagine Stein mending a crack at the edge of his blade or polishing a dent out of his handle; and then he shakes his head at himself, and when he slides back into his human form it’s with a smile clinging to his lips from the absurdity of his own imagination.

Stein doesn’t look back at the flicker of light that indicates the shift of his partner from weapon to human; he’s watching his hands as he scrubs them with soap, working over each finger and up his wrists with patient care. “It’s your shoulder, right?” The words are barely a question; he certainly doesn’t wait for an answer from Spirit standing behind him. “Take your jacket and shirt off and sit on the table.”

Spirit moves to obey. It’s only a few steps to unbutton his jacket and strip it and his shirt off his chest, but the pain is far more clear now that he’s in his physical body again, and the hurt that had dulled to a distant ache over the walk home is set tight against the back of his skull. He has to grit his teeth to shrug the coat off, and all the care he usually shows for his clothes isn’t enough to close his fingers on the weight before it falls to the ground. Spirit leaves it there, for now at least; he still has to get himself free of his undershirt, and his shoulder is hurting more with every shift he makes. He tugs the hem free of his pants one-handed, working awkwardly with his good arm so he can keep the other down, but that only gets him so far, and then he’s caught with his shirt halfway up his chest and his skin prickling with chill sweat as he contemplates lifting his arm over his head to strip his shirt off.

The weight of fingers pressing to Spirit’s hip, just atop the healed-over scar of his last major injury, startles him back into himself. “Here,” Stein says, his focus on Spirit’s shirt instead of the other’s face, and then his hands are sliding up with steady force to urge the fabric free of Spirit’s hold and up towards his shoulders. Spirit lifts his good arm without thinking and ducks his head to clear the opening of his shirt, and then Stein is stripping the fabric down over his injured arm without Spirit having to move at all. The meister tosses the shirt to join Spirit’s coat at the floor and jerks his chin towards the operating table. “Sit down.”

Spirit sits. His heart is still pounding hard from anticipating the pain of movement that never came; instead it’s spreading out from his side, sparking electricity through his veins with something like an almost-pleasant warmth from the weight of Stein’s fingertips against him. It makes him feel weird, flushed and shaky until he’s happy to sit down rather than run the risk of collapse, but whatever nerves have caught at his own existence have clearly passed over his meister entirely. Stein is looking over a tray of tools in the corner, his head ducked down as he considers the array of metal before him; there’s a calm in the line of his shoulders, a steady certainty to the movement of his hands, until Spirit finds himself gazing at the other just from the desire to borrow some of his partner’s calm for his own skittering heartbeat. Finally Stein straightens, and lifts a hand to urge his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and turns around as he threads a needle.

“Stitches again?” Spirit asks, more for the sake of saying anything at all than because he’s really dreading the prospect. “I’m going to end up scarred head to toe before I’m thirty.”

“You are a weapon,” Stein tells him without looking up even as he reaches for a bottle of antiseptic and comes forward. “Physical injuries come with the territory.”

“I thought that was something meisters were supposed to worry about,” Spirit says in a weak attempt at humor.

Stein lays the needle and thread out at the edge of the operating table and reaches to press his fingers against Spirit’s skin, just alongside the slow-bleeding cut drawn over the other’s collarbone. “You don’t hear me complaining about my scars.”

“Yeah, well.” Stein steadies his hand against Spirit’s shoulder, his fingers tighten to a certain hold; Spirit takes a breath and looks away at the wall. “I don’t see you mooning after girls either.”

“Is _that_ the concern?” Stein asks. “Conceit?”

“Looks are important,” Spirit says, aiming for a casual tone and hearing his voice skip high on strain in his throat. “As you--” and then Stein pours the antiseptic over his shoulder, and his voice and his thoughts both give way to a raw hiss of pain.

Stein’s fingers tighten hard against Spirit’s shoulder: a grounding point, more than an expression of panic. “Breathe,” Stein tells him, his voice as level and unflinching as his grip. “It’s just a scratch.”

“Scratches don’t need stitches,” Spirit protests, but he breathes just the same, gusting an exhale in an attempt to break free of the hurt radiating out into his shoulders and up his spine. Stein doesn’t let go of him; it’s only once the sting is fading that those fingers finally ease, and even then his touch lingers, like he’s holding Spirit in place as he reaches to set the antiseptic aside. Spirit ducks his head to take a deep breath of as much relief as he can muster, but he still doesn’t look to see Stein reaching for the needle. It’s easier to fix his attention on the dark of the seam running across Stein’s shoulder, where the motion of his arms is carried into the weight of his coat. Spirit can see the rhythm of Stein’s heartbeat at the side of his neck, where the flutter of his pulse is thudding steady-slow underneath the pale of skin untouched by the sun. It’s strangely soothing to watch the rhythm of it, to think about the rush of blood and the even thud of Stein’s heart working inside his chest; and then Stein says “Breathe,” and Spirit breathes, and Stein presses the needle into his skin.

It hurts, of course. Spirit’s not a fan of this in any case and least of all when it’s through skin already swelling purple and blue with the bruise rising over the bones that form the line of his shoulder; but it helps when he’s not watching, when he doesn’t know how much farther they have to go and doesn’t brace against each push of the needle. Better to watch the movement of Stein’s hair against the frames of his glasses, better to track the rhythm of Stein’s heartbeat in the side of his neck, better to listen to the steady hiss of Stein’s breathing falling with perfect calm even as he works through the delicate process of sewing his partner back together. Spirit stares at Stein’s hair, and listens to Stein’s breathing, and after a moment he tries to match it, to slow the pounding of adrenaline in his own heartbeat and the gasp of air in his lungs to the same even calm that his meister is showing. It’s hard to do -- he feels like he’s suffocating at first, as his body demands oxygen at a faster rate than he’s delivering it -- but slowly his breathing levels, his inhales ease, and he draws himself into calm alongside the pattern of Stein’s breathing before him. His heartrate slows, his shoulders untense, and even the pain of the stitches pulls away a little, drawing back to a sharp but bearable sting with each movement of those steady fingers. Spirit feels hazy, like the pace of Stein’s breathing has lulled him into a daydream, as if he’s been hypnotized by the slide of the other’s fingers over his skin, until it’s almost a surprise when the latest drag of hurt isn’t followed by another, when there is a break in the pattern of Stein’s touch against him.

“That’s it.” Stein ties off the thread as quickly as he speaks; by the time Spirit is blinking himself back into the present moment the other has cut the trailing ends of thread to leave just a neat crosshatching of stitches over what was an open wound a few minutes before. It’s still swollen with a bruise, broken blood vessels spilling color close under the skin, but at least the scarlet of blood is absent, and Spirit can see the neat line of the scar that will be all he will have left of this, given a few weeks to heal.

Stein draws back from the edge of the table and turns to put the disinfectant away again. “The bruising is going to hurt for a while,” he says in the same cool, clinical voice he has been using since they arrived home. “Ice will take the first round of swelling down and painkillers will help from there.” He drops the needle into a tray to be handled later and turns towards the door. “Stay here, I’ll get you a compress.”

Spirit looks up from his consideration of his latest injury. Stein isn’t watching him; he’s heading for the exit to the operating room, already reaching out to push the door open and move out into the hallway in his stated pursuit. There’s no indication of strain anywhere in him, from the press of his hand against the door to the even weight of his steps to the slump of his shoulders; he looks as entirely calm after killing a Kishin egg and sewing his weapon partner back together as if he’s been reading a book or eating dinner or taking a nap. Something in Spirit’s chest aches, a pang of something more pressure than pain, as if Stein’s hold at his shoulder lingers even with his meister all the way across the room, and when he speaks it’s without thinking at all.

“Stein.” Stein stops at once. His hand is still on the door, his intention is still clear, but when he looks back at Spirit it’s with the full focus of attention behind his glasses. There’s a weight to his gaze too, a force as steady as the touch of his hand; for a moment Spirit has to swallow before he can find words at his lips. “Thanks.”

Stein looks at Spirit for a moment. There’s no shift in his expression, no flicker of surprise or anything else behind his eyes; he’s just looking, staring with as much intensity as if he means to offer a diagnosis from across the distance of the room. Finally he tips his head to the side, a movement just enough to catch the light off the lenses of his glasses to obscure his eyes.

“You’re welcome,” he says, as certain on the words as his touch was. He hesitates for another moment, as if asking if Spirit is done with sudden admissions; and then he turns, and this time Spirit lets him duck out the door without calling after him.

His cheeks are hot with self-consciousness, but he’s smiling too, and even if he can explain neither he feels the glow of both more clearly even than the hurt of the bruise at his shoulder.


	3. Not Broken

There is something wrong with the world. The universe has angled itself sideways by a half-degree, hardly enough to notice as anything more than a headache, a dull throbbing just against one’s temples in protest to a shift in vision, to a wobble in balance; or maybe it’s Stein himself that has changed, Stein who is finally standing straight again for the first time in so long he can’t recall what it was to be properly aligned. His vision seems blurry, as if his eyes won’t focus, but the world is too bright around him, crisp and clear as if the myopia he has worked around since he was a child has healed itself in time with the removal of the static that has so filled his mind for the past unmeasured span of time.

The air is cleaner, with Ashura gone. Stein can taste the bright of it on his tongue like water, as if the weight of the cigarettes that so cloud his tastebuds has suddenly dissipated to leave his thoughts as crystal-clear as his vision. It would be pleasant, he thinks, would be something to be appreciated in other circumstances, but it has broken over him so abruptly that all he can find it in him to do is stumble and cringe away from it like some dark, crawling thing flinching away from sudden exposure to the bright of noonday sun. Perhaps tomorrow he can steady himself, perhaps a night of rest will grant him the stability he needs to ground himself in this new world, to find space for himself in the peace that comes with the removal of any madness but that he carries with him; for now, all he wants to do is go home.

No one tries to stop him leaving. Marie is caught up with Crona, hovering over the child with Azusa lingering behind her sighing judgment and offering criticism that somehow frames itself as helpful advice no matter what she says; Justin is still somewhere in the smouldering wreckage of the forest, still hunting down the last of Arachnophobia scattered forces for all Stein knows. The only real barrier to Stein’s quiet exit is Death Scythe and the wide-eyed stare he turned on his former meister upon Stein’s arrival in the Death Room; but he’s the hero of the moment, and the primary weapon of Lord Death himself, and all Stein really had to do was wait until the necessities of that loomed large over his former weapon, his present maybe-friend, and distracted the bright of those blue eyes to look at something else for a moment. From there it was a simple thing to take in a lungful of smoke, and gust it out into a cloud to blur his outline, and get up to slip from the room with the steady pace that will stop anyone from halting him just on the assumption that he has somewhere else he needs to be.

He does. The lab is calling him as a magnet calling to iron, the stability and familiarity of the walls tugging against Stein’s heart as if with the call of a figure imbued with far more familial affection that he has ever felt for another human being. The world is tilting under him, his thoughts are as painfully clear as the edges of shattered glass, throwing back distorted recollections of his recent past to dizzy his vision and stutter his steps; but he doesn’t need to think to make his way home, doesn’t have to move with anything more than halting motions to find his way through the streets. He knows these better than he knows the winding maze of his own mind, the shadowed paths of his psyche that he has been so lost in for so long; whatever tangle his nightmares have made of this path, Stein’s scarred-over body remembers the way, and he can trust that to carry him home.

The lab is just as he left it. It looms at the top of its hill, grey and foreboding to a general eye and promising the relief of darkness and quiet to Stein’s. He makes his way through the front door, unsurprised to find it opening unlocked to the urging of his hand, and he doesn’t reach to turn on a light even as the door swings shut behind him to leave him in darkness. He moves forward instead, listening to the echo of his footsteps off the walls and following habit to keep himself from collision all the way down the corridor and around the corner of the hallway to his dedicated workspace, with the green glow of his computer screen and the squeak of his chair to welcome him. It’s just as he left it -- the screensaver flickering on the computer, the chair tipped far off to the side, even the dark-stained ring inside the empty cup of coffee -- and Stein can feel something deep down in his soul shudder into a sigh of relief in the moment before he steps forward to cast himself heavily into the uncertain support of the chair before him. He leans far back against the stitched-over cushion, and shuts his eyes to the faint illumination of his computer screen, and when he takes a breath from the glow of his smouldering cigarette the bitter ash of the smoke on his tongue tastes like a welcome.

Stein doesn’t move for long minutes. He needs rest, he knows; likely he could do with the full unconsciousness of sleep, if he were willing to reach for it. But there’s a comfort greater even than dreams to be had in this moment, in savoring a return to a space so well-known it serves him as a second existence, as if he’s climbing back into the skeleton of his own form and resettling himself around the structure thus granted him. It would be enough to stay here for hours, he thinks, for days, maybe, just letting his awareness expand out into the walls stained with years of nicotine and painted over with memories that bleed one into each other like a children’s story; and then there’s a flicker at the corner of his awareness, and Stein tips his head to track it without opening his eyes. There’s someone coming up the slope of the hill, moving slow but with the steady progress of intent; and then Stein catches the glow of the soul wavelength that comes with it, the spill of unrestrained warmth like the bright of a summer sun, and he can feel tension he didn’t know was there unwind itself from his shoulders with the first surge of recognition.

He takes his time getting to his feet. He has several minutes, judging by the pace of his visitor’s approach, and it’s difficult to find the energy for much action of any kind. He’s still rapid enough, or the other is slow enough, that Stein’s coming down the corridor towards the front door by the time they’re cresting the top of the hill to approach the front of the lab. Stein doesn’t deliberately slow his steps, doesn’t intentionally time his approach to the other; it’s just coincidence, he thinks, or a synchronicity too ingrained to be lost by a few years of silence, that brings his hand pulling the door open just as Spirit is lifting his own to knock for admittance. They gaze at each other for a moment, wide blue eyes meeting steady green ones; and then Spirit lowers his hand with stiff care, and attempts a smile that struggles onto his face in spite of the exhaustion in his eyes.

“I should have known,” he says in a voice as tired as his gaze, as exhausted as the slump of his shoulders. “You must have seen me coming a mile away.”

Stein lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “Not quite that far,” he says, and steps aside from the doorway. Spirit doesn’t wait for an invitation before he steps over the threshold and into the space that used to be his home as much as Stein’s, that used to be _theirs_. Stein can’t remember if Spirit’s ever been within the walls of the laboratory since the end of their partnership. The uncertainty bothers him more than it should and he turns his attention to easing the door back into place instead of looking to see how Spirit fits into this familiar space now, with his shoulders broader and his hair longer and his face drawn on lines of stress and age alike. “I thought you might be coming.”

Spirit huffs a laugh. Stein knows that sound too, without having to reach for the recognition of how pain sounds in Spirit’s throat when he’s trying to hide it, when he’s trying to disguise it from his meister; as if he’s ever been able to hide anything from Stein when Stein was really watching him. It’s only after he’s thought it that Stein sees the jump his thoughts made from _meister_ to _self_ with such graceful disregard for the chasm that must exist between them now; it makes him feel dizzy again, like the world has jerked sideways to pull itself from under the weight of his feet.

Whatever inner conflict Stein feels, none of it shows on his face; or maybe Spirit’s too caught in his own efforts to see it for what it is. He shifts his feet now, moving towards the side of the corridor rather than standing in the middle; Stein glances at the other’s hand to see the tension there, the expectation of maybe needing to catch himself from a fall and seeking out a support in the event of such. “You haven’t changed.” Spirit’s fingers brush the wall, his head tips down to track the motion; when Stein looks up at his face he can see the other’s lips curve onto a smile that goes gentle with shocking sincerity. “I guess I haven’t either, though.”

Stein lifts the stub of his cigarette to his lips for one last inhale before he stubs it out. The smoke stings his eyes and burns the back of his throat but it’s a familiar warmth, something to ground him against the weird pressure he can feel aching against the inside of his chest. When he speaks his voice is steady, as flattened by the weight of the smoke as his thoughts. “Are you hurt?”

Spirit ducks his head farther forward until his hair falls in front of his face. “Is it that obvious?”

 _No_ , Stein wants to say. _I just know you_. But his voice won’t work on the words, and Spirit doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer, and in the end he lets the reply go unvoiced. “You know the way.”

Spirit huffs another laugh. “Guess I do,” he says, and lifts his hand from the wall to turn and take the lead. Stein watches him for a moment, gauging the pace of his steps, the set of his shoulders, the rhythm of his breathing, gaining a sense for the scope and severity of the other’s injuries before he’s even seen them; and then he realizes he’s slipped into Soul Perception without meaning to, that it’s the slow-steady thrum of Spirit’s soul that he’s gazing at instead of what tells he can gain from the other’s physical form, and Stein blinks hard and straightens to follow Spirit down the hall towards the operating room.

Spirit doesn’t wait for an order any more than he hesitated for an invitation at the front door. He’s letting the suit jacket draped loose over his shoulders slide free as Stein steps into the room after him, catching it at his fingers to drape over a chair with habitual care before he reaches to slide the knot of his tie loose. There’s something graceful to his movements that wasn’t there when they were students, an elegance born of familiarity underneath the flex of his wrist and the slide of his fingers; for a brief, dizzying moment Stein can see Spirit as if they’re standing in the other’s bedroom instead of Stein’s laboratory, as if he’s an intruder into the private intimacy of the other’s nightly routine. Stein’s vision hazes, his attention blurs, and he has to duck his head and fix his gaze at the floor before he can remember what it is he’s meant to be doing and move towards the sink to wash his hands.

“It’s not as if I’m badly hurt,” Spirit says as Stein is watching his hands move on autopilot to wash dirt and grime from his skin and under his fingernails. “More bruised than anything else, I think. I could probably do with a shower. But I didn’t want to bother the school infirmary over something trivial, and I thought, since you’re back--”

“Of course,” Stein says. “I’m glad you came.” He reaches to shut off the water and goes to dry his hands. “I’ll get you patched up. Just like old times.”

Spirit gusts a laugh. “Yeah,” he says. Stein looks back; Spirit is watching his movement rather than looking up at the other, careful in the process of bracing himself at the edge of the table as he pushes himself up onto the support. His fingers tighten against the metal underneath him, his arm strains with the effort of steadying himself; with his blood-and smoke-stained dress shirt folded atop his jacket to leave his skin bare, Stein can see the motion of muscle all the way up Spirit’s arm, can see the other’s action flex across his shoulder and the pain of the movement strain at the back of his neck where his hair has fallen forward to bare the smudged-in line of dirt against pale skin. Everything is different, Stein can see it as much as he can feel it: Spirit’s shoulders are broader, his movements are slower, his skin is marked with unfamiliar scars as well as those Stein mended himself, as those Stein put there under the edge of his own blade. Even Spirit’s hair is different, a little darker with age, a little heavier with extra length; but it still falls forward around his shoulders into the same curtain of color, it still gives way over the back of his neck to show the knob of bone at the top of his spine, and for a moment Stein feels himself propelled backwards into the past, as if the years of time he has pulled himself through are unravelling around him to strip the weight of the screw from his head, and to undo the hard-won strength of his shoulders and the tracery of stitches in his skin to leave him the boy he once was, that first night Spirit stepped through these doors to trust the smooth of his skin to the touch of Stein’s hands.

“I think I’m more dusty than anything else,” Spirit says, and Stein blinks back into himself. “But there’s a cut in my shirt, back here” as he lifts a hand from his locked-elbow support against the table to gesture towards his back, just alongside his spine. Stein can see the motion run through Spirit’s shoulders, can see the strain pull at the slow-clotting blood dripping against the line of Spirit’s back, and he steps in at once to reach out and stall the other’s movement with the weight of his fingers.

“I see it,” he says. His voice is very steady; Stein is distantly surprised at that, as he touches his fingers against Spirit’s skin atop the pattern of scars laid there by combat and curiosity alike. There’s a fresh injury, Spirit’s right, a tear running diagonally just to the left of his spine; it’s bleeding from the other’s unwary movement, but Stein can see the scab forming even as he looks at it. It would probably heal well enough left to its own devices, and it’s hardly in a location to merit much concern for aesthetics; Stein presses a thumb against the blood and watches the red spill to mark out the outline of his fingertip against Spirit’s skin for a moment before he takes a breath and pulls back. “I can put a few stitches in it if you want.”

“Sure,” Spirit says, and leans forward to rest his weight on his elbows bracing hard atop his knees. “I promise I won’t flinch.”

Stein smiles unseen at the curve of Spirit’s shoulders. “You never used to,” he says, and he draws his touch away as he turns aside. His movements are easy, unthinking: it’s instinct as much as anything else that guides him, his body falling back into habit as well-learned as his fighting technique with a scythe in his hands, as the feel of Resonance forming between his own mind and Spirit’s. It guides him through the process of cleaning Spirit’s injury and preparing the needle and thread all unthinking, without requiring any particular consideration from the echoing space of his head; a fact for which Stein is intensely grateful, under the circumstances. His thoughts are reeling, stumbling over themselves far worse than they did on the slow trek back from the Death Room to his present location, and he doesn’t know if it’s the absence of the Madness wavelength humming in the air or the glow of hospital lights off Spirit’s bare skin that is so undoing his grasp on time, on reality, on his own existence. Stein reaches out to brace a hand against Spirit’s skin, to fit his palm in just over the curve of bone rising to visibility against the dip of the other’s spine, and then he draws the needle in close to slide the point of it in and through the give of the other’s body to mend the damage done.

Stein doesn’t remember the process of setting the stitches in place. His hand moves on habit, going through motions he long-since learned as surely as the rhythm of his breathing; his focus is elsewhere, following the fit of his fingertips to Spirit’s spine, tracking the crosshatching of scars glowing to pale white tracery all across the other’s ribs and shoulders and back. Everything feels hazy, as if he’s caught in a memory, as if his reality has tumbled backwards into the past; if it weren’t for the proof of the passage of years written into the body under his fingertips Stein would think himself succumbing to the Madness once more, trapped in a vision meant to seduce him into pleasure instead of fear. It would have been more effective, he thinks distantly, as he watches his hands tie off the trailing ends of thread and cut free the connection between the needle and Spirit’s newly-treated injury; even if he knew this to be a dream, he doesn’t think he could possibly muster the self-control to pull away.

“Is that it?” Spirit asks. Stein’s ears are ringing as if with the aftereffects of some great bell tolling too near for comfort but Spirit’s voice cuts straight through the buzz filling his head as if Stein’s hands are pressed to the cool handle of a weapon instead of the warmth of human skin against his own, as if they are sharing everything between them into a single complete identity. Spirit unfolds from his forward slump, his muscles shift under the weight of Stein’s hand as the other pulls away; when he reaches behind him it’s to touch at the edge of the cut Stein has just stitched up, to ghost his fingers against the neat line of thread the other has set. He huffs a laugh; when he glances back over his shoulder the smile lingers at his lips, the soft of it glowing even brighter than the weight of exhaustion in his eyes.

“Better than anyone else ever manages,” Spirit says. “That’s my meister for you. You always have the steadiest hands.”

Stein has never thought, before, that he would be glad for distance between himself and Spirit; but at this moment, with thar casual possessive coursing through him like an electrical current, he’s glad for the gap between Spirit’s skin and the helpless, giveaway tremor in his fingers making a lie of Spirit’s words as fast as they are given.


	4. Come Clean

Spirit has missed this.

He knows how crazy that sounds. It’s been over a decade since he and Stein broke off their partnership, longer still since he last had the meister’s hands pressing against him like this. Their last interaction as partners had been a violent one, marked with shouts and condemnation and a sense of betrayal that Spirit had thought he would never be able to shake no matter how many years passed. His skin is patterned with more scars than untouched skin, many of them from Stein’s hand directly; it’s absurd to feel comfort in the deliberate work of the other’s hands against these latest injuries when so many of Spirit’s old hurts were caused directly by the man behind him. But Spirit has spent too much of the last weeks doing what he should, playing the part he needed to for the Academy, for the city, for the world, and even knowing that was the right decision didn’t make it easy. The fight is over, now, Ashura is defeated and the threat is passed, and in the relief that comes with that Spirit wants to indulge in something just for himself, wholly apart from what Kami or Lord Death or anyone else might have to say about the matter. So he ducks his head, and he shuts his eyes, and he lets the comfort of Stein’s steady touch against his skin unwind tension from his shoulders and strain from his body with the appreciation that he hasn’t felt since the last time they partnered, when there was nothing but the simplicity of boyish ambition to guide their choices.

Spirit doesn’t know how long he stays there. He hadn’t thought his injuries were that severe, all in all -- his cuts had clotted to scabs before he left the Death Room, and however bruised and strained his body may be it let him cross the distance to the laboratory under no one’s power but his own. But Stein doesn’t pull away, doesn’t tell him he’s finished, and instead Spirit stays where he is, his hair falling loose around his face and his breathing going slower with spreading comfort even around the sting of antiseptic and the pain of Stein setting stitches into those injuries that require it. Maybe Stein is crazy, maybe this is all a mistake; it’s true enough that he betrayed Spirit’s trust when they were students together, true further that he’s only just returned from an ill-advised escape that Spirit can think of as nothing so much as a possession by the Madness wavelength and the witch Medusa. But Ashura is defeated, and Medusa is gone, and maybe Stein doesn’t deserve Spirit’s trust but Spirit gives it to him anyway, because it’s easier, because it’s what all his instincts have always wanted him to do. Stein might be a loose cannon, might be unpredictable and insane and a genius only in the maddest sense of the word; but his hands are steady, and his presence is a comfort, and in the end Spirit was never really able to strip that title of _meister_ from the other man.

He can tell when Stein finishes. It’s not from anything the other says; he has hardly spoken since Spirit came through the front door of the laboratory, and not at all after the other took his position at the edge of the cool metal operating table. But his movements are slowing, falling into something that Spirit would call languid appreciation in someone less absolutely objective than Stein himself, and finally he hesitates over pulling away, lingering in the press of a hand to skin that is too gentle to be an examination and too lengthy to be accidental. Spirit can feel the tension of it rising in the air between them, as if the bittersweet conclusion to his present comfort is stirring itself into physical presence even before it’s given voice, and it’s he who speaks first, gusting over a sighing exhale as he straightens his shoulders and lifts his head to shake his hair back from his face.

“That’s it, right?” Spirit lifts a hand from where he’s been bracing against the table alongside himself and urges his fingers roughly through the weight of his hair; it’s still carrying the smell of smoke and a haze of dust from that last combat in the Death Room, but at least he can work the worst of the tangles free to leave it to fall in some kind of grace around his bare shoulders. He tips his head to look back over his shoulder, flashing a smile as he catches the weight of Stein’s gaze locked on him; it feels tired even to himself, but the affection in it is sincere even if he can feel exhaustion pulling at the corners of his eyes and heavy against the line of his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he says, feeling the words ring with the resonance of sincerity against the inside of his chest. “I really appreciate it.” Spirit huffs a laugh, letting gentle self-deprecation tighten at the corner of his mouth. “Sorry to impose. I just really wanted someone to take care of me for a little while again.”

Stein’s lashes dip over the grey-green of his stare; when he shakes his head he offers the movement without so much as a twitch at his lips. “You’re not imposing.”

Spirit’s smile goes wider. “Don’t try to play polite with me,” he says. “You know I can see right through your fake smiles.” He turns back around to consider the pile of his clothes on the chair by the door and heaves a sigh of resignation to the idea of struggling back into them before he steels himself and braces his hand at the edge of the table in preparation to push himself back to the support of his own two feet. “I’d better get out of your way. They probably want me in the Death Room again anyway.”

“Spirit.” Stein’s tone is as flat as ever, a cool monotone like he’s making an objective statement rather than trying to lay claim to the other’s attention; but Spirit is turning at once, responding to the sound of his name at his meister’s lips as if it’s a touch against his skin to urge him to turn. He glances back over his shoulder, his gaze swinging around from the door to meet the other’s steady gaze behind him; but Stein is moving instead of watching, stepping forward to the far edge of the table Spirit is sitting on and reaching out to brace his hand flat against the surface. His fingertips brush against Spirit’s own, his touch glancing against the other’s skin, but he’s still moving to lean in closer without drawing away from the contact. His free hand comes up, his fingers press and slide into the weight of Spirit’s hair; Spirit’s breath catches with the cool of Stein’s touch weighting behind his ear, with the pressure of Stein’s little finger dragging at the back of his neck, but he doesn’t have a chance to give voice to any kind of a question or comment, because Stein is ducking in, and tipping his head, and pressing his lips flush against the hiss of an inhale on Spirit’s tongue.

Spirit doesn’t move at all for a moment. His eyes are still open, his lips are still parted; the words he might have said are still tangled against his tongue, still hanging unresolved in his head. Everything in the world feels like it’s gone still, as if Spirit has been pushed out of time itself, locked into immobility by the shock of the moment. The table is cool under his hand, he can feel the ache of his injuries pulling with the twist to his spine and the angle of his shoulders; but his attention is outside himself entirely, fitting into the curve of Stein’s palm against the side of his neck like it’s following the unvoiced orders of the boy who first met Spirit’s gaze across the span of a classroom, of the meister who drew out a power from Spirit he had never felt in himself before, of the man whose touch is still the most delicate thing Spirit has ever felt, even after all these years. Spirit stays still, held where he sits by the press of Stein’s hand to his neck, by the friction of Stein’s lips lying warm against his own; and then Stein’s thumb slides against his hair, a tiny, half-formed caress of motion, and something in Spirit gives way, some tension in him smoothed away by even that minimal action. His shoulders ease, his lashes dip, and when he turns his head it’s to fit himself to the tilt of Stein’s, to dip into surrender to the force of those lips against his own.

Spirit’s mouth goes soft, surprise giving way to the heat of capitulation, and Stein follows him at once, answering the guidance of Spirit’s actions by echoing them back with interest. His hand slides farther back, curling possession at the back of Spirit’s neck, his fingers pressing up to cradle the weight of the other’s head in his hold, and Spirit tips closer, parting his lips into an invitation that feels like a breath of relief, that feels like the unraveling of some impossible, endless tension. Stein tastes against the corner of Spirit’s mouth, touching his tongue just against the other’s lips like he’s testing their give, like he’s mapping new territory, and as he presses in for more Spirit reaches up to brace his free hand against Stein’s shoulder to hold onto the weight of the other’s shirt as the best means of orienting himself as gravity slips free from his distracted attention. Stein’s fingers at the table tense, the force of them pinning Spirit’s flat to the metal, and Spirit lets himself curve backwards, lets Stein’s guidance arch him back into elegance against the support of the meister’s hold.

Spirit is dizzy by the time Stein draws back to give him a breath. It’s hard to remember to open his eyes, harder to remember where he is; for a moment all Spirit can manage to do is to stare at Stein leaning in over him, to reach for what stability he can find in green eyes darkened to half-lidded shadow. Stein’s lips are parted, his breathing rasping with more effort than Spirit has ever heard from him outside of combat; the heat of his exhales spills over Spirit’s mouth and glows heat through Spirit’s skin. Spirit can feel his cheeks darkening with a flush as much appreciation as self-consciousness; it takes deliberate effort to close his mouth and drag his attention back into focus from where it wants to linger, under the force of the hand at the back of his head and in the dip of Stein’s mouth still breathlessly close to his own.

“I,” Spirit says, impressed by his ability to speak at all, articulately or otherwise. “Stein. I--”

Stein’s lashes flutter over the weight of his gaze; his hand at Spirit’s neck flexes tighter for a moment, as if he intends to press his grip into the other’s body as surely as he’s laid his fingerprints into the dark of Spirit’s scythe handle. Then he draws back, pulling away from the open temptation of proximity even as his hold urges the other back up towards what Spirit has to struggle to recognize as upright. He catches his balance with some effort, and mostly with the aid of Stein’s shoulder under his hold; it’s only once he’s sitting unassisted once more that Stein’s grip at his neck loosens and draws away, so carefully even the removal feels like lingering appreciation.

Stein lifts his head, turning up and away from Spirit’s shocked gaze towards the light overhead instead. The illumination catches at his glasses to shine them into blank, unreadable white as he takes a breath and speaks. “You should be all set.” He straightens from his lean over the operating table and draws his hand away from where it’s pressing atop Spirit’s; the heat of the contact lingers even after Stein has taken a step back from the table.

“Get some rest,” Stein advises. “You’ll be good as new in a couple of days.” He turns back towards the sink at the corner; the glare off his glasses follows him like a wall to keep Spirit from seeing his eyes as he moves.

Spirit doesn’t know what to say. He stays where he is for a moment, leaning hard against the braced-out support of his arm and staring at the line of Stein’s shoulders as the other turns on the rush of water to wash his hands again. Spirit’s heart is pounding hard in his chest, his breath is catching in his throat; his lips feel like they’re electrified, as if he’s caught some portion of the spark of the meister’s Soul Force on his tongue and swallowed the lightning of it to crackle painless fire over the whole of his skin. He blinks at Stein’s shoulders, closes his mouth, takes a careful breath through his nose; and finally straightens to sit up properly, moving slowly past the vague sense that the orientation of the world might shift again at once to throw his mouth against Stein’s once more, to draw them together with the force of magnetism that Spirit can feel like an ache far sharper than the distant pain of his injuries, a soul-deep want as if he’s the needle of a compass pointing his way to the true north of Stein’s presence. It takes effort to slide off the edge of the table, to move to collect his clothes instead of stepping across the room to where Stein is working through the deliberate motion of washing his hands; Spirit has to turn the whole of his focus to the task of buttoning his shirt just to make sure he doesn’t misplace any of the connections. He doesn’t even make the attempt on his tie, just slings it loose around his neck before he reaches to shake out his suit jacket and slide the weight of it over his shoulders like it’s armor for the cuts and bruises scattered over his body; it’s only after he’s replaced his clothes that he takes a breath and looks back to where Stein is standing at the other side of the room.

The meister isn’t looking at him. He’s facing the wall over the sink, his shoulders relaxed and his gaze fixed straight ahead; all Spirit can see of him is the fall of silver hair against the line of his shoulders. The locks are heavy against the back of Stein’s neck; for a moment Spirit is caught in watching the wave of them, in tracking the soft curl of the ends against the pale of the other’s collar. He’s never noticed before how soft Stein’s hair looks, never before thought about how delicate it would feel against his fingers, about how easy it would be to curl his hand into a hold against the fall of it; and then he catches himself, and ducks his head to blink hard at the floor before clearing his throat into the illusion of composure.

“Thank you,” Spirit says. “For…” His lips tingle, his throat tightens, and he gives up speech in favor of coughing in a desperate and mostly useless attempt to return to calm. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Stein says, sounding as calm as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened at all, as if he regularly presses the distraction of kisses against Spirit’s mouth to scatter all the other’s thoughts. Spirit hesitates for a moment, trying to reach for something else to say; but words fail him, and his flush is spreading, and finally he turns aside to move towards the door to let himself out, feeling like he’s dragging himself bodily away from the place where he wants to be but too uncertain of his welcome to linger. He reaches to weight his palm to the door to urge the swing of it open, and then:

“Come back any time,” in a clear, carrying tone that stops Spirit dead in his tracks. He looks back at once, his attention pulled free of his own control by the command of that voice: and Stein is looking at him, his head turned and his glasses gone transparent. His gaze is fixed on Spirit, the full attention of those green eyes locked on the other as if he’s seeing right through him, as if he’s looking into the magnetic ache that has settled itself inside Spirit’s chest; as Spirit looks back at him Stein’s eyes jump up to meet his wide-eyed stare instead, to fix them together for a moment of attention. They stare at each other, held as near by their shared attention as by a grip against a scythe-handle, as if stepping into the same mental space; and then Stein’s mouth tugs up at the corner, and a smile breaks over Spirit’s face in answer to the resonance of warmth humming in the space between them.

Spirit hadn’t even felt this hurt, has learned how to work around this absence until he never even saw it, until he didn’t know it was there to be mended, but it hardly seems a loss. By the time they’re healed, Spirit is sure they’ll be even better than new.


End file.
